


Darkest Timeline fic collection

by PepperF



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: AU, Darkest Timeline, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 19:49:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7858804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These were written for the J/A Appreciation Week 2016, but they also fit in with my other Darkest Timeline fics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And We Go Live

**Author's Note:**

> With many, grateful thanks to Bethany, beta reader/editor extraordinaire! And also thanks to everyone who already commented/reblogged/liked these on tumblr - if I had a good way to respond, I totally would, but please do know that I appreciate every single one. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> J/A Appreciation Week 2016: AU fic

2-  
After a couple weeks of Jeff's not-so-subtle stalking (texting, calling, and even dropping by, flimsy excuses about homework notwithstanding), Annie confronts him.

"Why are you stalking me?"

"Why do you carry a gun in your purse?"

Annie's eyes narrow dangerously. "You've been going through my purse?"

"Troy did, at the party," says Jeff, throwing their friend under the bus without a qualm. "And you didn't answer my question."

"Someone got stabbed outside my building," she snaps. "And you didn't answer _mine_."

"Someone got _stabbed_!? Jesus, Annie, you've got to get out of this place!"

"So that's what this is about, huh? It's about treating me like a child who can't be trusted to handle her own problems!"

"No, this is about treating you like an adult who lives in a terrible neighborhood. It's your obsession with proving you’re an adult that’s childish!"

"Oh! Of all the nerve! You have two options right now, Jeff Winger. You can either start treating me like an adult, or you can get the hell out of my apartment!"

"Okay, fine. I _will_."

"Good! Because I've had just about enough of—"

\---

4-  
"Anyway, really, what's her definition of 'googly eyes'? If I can't even make eye contact with a woman without it being some kind of—of thing… I mean, what is this, Stalinist Russia?"

"I know, it's completely ridiculous! I can't believe Shirley even said that. Reading into things, much?"

"Yeah, exactly. She's just plain wrong, it’s that simple. There's nothing going on between us, at all. Well, except friendship, of course. Good, close friendship. Not anything worth reading into. We should just ignore her."

"Yes, we should. Or maybe we should talk to her? Not confrontationally, but just… to say that we don't appreciate being the subject of gossip?"

"We could do that. Yeah. Maybe we should. She can't just go around _implying_ things. What if one of us was secretly dating someone? She could really have caused trouble."

"Mmm. Um... Jeff?"

"Yeah?"

"You're—you're not secretly dating someone, are you?"

"No! No, of course not. I'm not seeing anyone right now. Are—"

"No. No one."

"Ah... But Shirley didn't know that. I mean, we might have been dating. People! Other people. Really, it would serve her right if we _did_ do something… something that would really…"

"Rock the boat?"

"Yeah." 

"It would, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah…

\---

3-  
_Care about you, not reading into things, date. Care about you, not reading into things, date. Care about—_

Annie's door opens.

"Jeff?" She stares at him, but fear has temporarily stalled Jeff's brain. She leans out of the door to peer past him, as if expecting their friends, or whatever, a mariachi band or something. "What are you doing here?"

"Three things," he says, lurching back into gear. "I mean, I had—I wanted… Point one," he perseveres, aware that he's already messing this up. "You're very important to me. I care about you. I wanted you to know that."

She smiles at him, looking puzzled. "I know. Of course you do," she says. "But why are you—"

"Point two. Reading into things. Because, you're not. You weren't. Haven't been."

Annie stares at him. 

"About anything," he adds, for good measure, although he's pretty sure she's catching on fast. "All that 'either you want me or you don't' stuff? Yes. The answer is yes."

She's still staring, frozen in place, and Jeff finds himself drifting, getting lost in that wide, blue gaze, leaning closer…

"Point three!" He quickly leans back again. Has to get this right. Has to say it. "Dating. A date. Asking you. _I_ am asking you. Would you go like to. Go on a date. With me."

God, that was _horrible_. That was possibly his worst performance ever in asking a girl out, including that time when he was thirteen and his voice broke. He takes a deep breath, and gets a grip on himself, figuratively; and then on her hands, literally.

"Annie," he says, soft and low. She gives a sucked-in kind of squeak. "Are you free this Friday?"

The question hangs in the air between them—

\---

6-  
"They're gonna—"

"Don't care," he says, silencing her concerns in his new favorite way. She tastes of pizza and Diet Coke, her lipgloss long gone. He doesn't care about troll dolls or pizza-boy fiancés, or that inexplicable bowl of olives they just overturned. He's giving up on thinking, on holding himself back, and on being the good guy. He only wants _this_.

Annie moans around his tongue, and reaches back to hoist herself onto the vanity so she can wrap her legs around his thighs and drag him closer. And he's about three seconds away from doing something really bad (and really, _really_ wonderful), when someone bangs on the door.

"Jeff, you rat, are you in there?" Britta.

"With Annie? What are you two doing in there?" Shirley.

"That's an improper use of our facilities." Abed. 

No doubt Troy and Pierce are out there, too, just waiting for their turn to wade in and ruin his love life.

He breaks away, panting, and glances at the open window to his right, wondering if they could make a break for it. Pressed tightly against him, Annie is breathing equally as hard. He turns his face to her, just as she turns hers back to him, and they meet each other's gaze. Her mouth is pink and wet and enticing… and someone bangs on the door again. Annie sighs, sounding frustrated. He knows just how she feels.

"Do you—"

"I guess—"

They speak at the same time. Jeff smiles crookedly, and nods for her to go ahead.

She gives him a slow, sweet smile, and he doesn't know if she means it to look as seductive as it does, but _oh boy_ …

"Jeff. Do you want to—"

\---

5-  
"You implied I was too old for you!"

"Yeah, well, you implied I was childish! And you _inferred_ that meaning, I wasn't implying _anything_."

"Annie, you said—oh, _god_ —"

She wanted to talk, she'd said, when he’d let her into his place. She wanted to work things out between them. Well, if this is how Annie wants to work things out, he's going to be starting a _lot_ more arguments in the future.

She gasps, and arches backwards, eyes squeezed shut. "J-Jeff. That's—yes, right there…" She's beautiful, naked, and womanly, and he regrets what he said earlier, not least because they might have done this even sooner. 

But maybe now isn't the time to worry about that.

He grasps her waist so he can push up harder into her, and she makes a wordless noise of approval, clutching at her own breast and nodding blindly as she circles her hips. He wouldn't say she's been selfish in bed, so far, but she's certainly bossy—and it's really, really working for him. 

"Move—Jeff—I need—"

It takes him a few moments to understand that she's trying to tell him to sit up against the headboard. He shifts quickly, and she falls against him, clutching his shoulders. They're chest-to-chest, and he takes the opportunity to slide one hand up into her hair and pull her down to him for a kiss, and press the other hand against her ass. She purrs into his mouth, moving a little more frantically, shifting even closer. Apparently this is really working for her, too.

"You are so fucking sexy," he mutters, kissing his way down her neck, as she obligingly tilts her head back.

She chuckles throatily as he reaches her breasts—but falls quickly into gasps. "Oh, oh, oh—Jeff, oh my god—"

He lifts his head quickly to watch her as she comes, and it's spectacular, so much so that he entirely forgets his lingering annoyance and his desire to prove that he's not _old_ , and just falls headfirst into oblivion with her.

He lifts his head from her warm, damp neck a few moments later, and smiles lazily at her.

"I'm sorry I hurt your feelings," she says, meeting his gaze fearlessly. "I just—well, I guess I kind of panicked? I didn't mean anything by it."

He nods in acceptance, and waits, until a little frown appears between her eyebrows. She might not admit it, but she's expecting a reciprocal apology—and he grins broadly when she narrows her eyes at him.

"Jeff—"

"I'm sorry, too," he says, and her frown disappears instantly. "I was being a jerk."

She smiles sunnily at him. "Apology accepted," she says, nodding.

He looks down, and then slyly back up. "Although given the result, I can't say I'm _that_ sorry," he says.

Her laugh is free and light.


	2. So If Sunday You're Free

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> J/A Appreciation Week 2016: songfic

She's been getting better, so this time, when he visits, he's allowed to take her out for a walk in the gardens on her own recognizance. Spring is in full bloom, and the sunshine is bordering on hot, so they sit in the cool shadow of a tree, in deference to her pale skin (which has only gotten more luminously pallid, like some mysterious underwater creature, since her incarceration). She brings out a little box of raisins and starts throwing them onto the grass, one by one, trying to tempt down the nearby pigeons—which must be well-fed, because they ignore the proffered bounty.

"They probably haven't spotted you yet," he says, when she looks sad. "Pigeons aren't the sharpest birds in the flock."

She nods, and throws another raisin.

This compulsion he's always had, to take the sad look off her face, has increased tenfold since her breakdown. A lot of it is guilt: he shut everyone out, after—when—because he wasn't dealing well, and he didn't want them fussing over him. He was too wrapped up in his own pain to see what was happening with her. Her overdose dragged him out of his shell, brought what was left of the gang back together. He's still not dealing with it, not really, but he can put on a show for her.

"How are you doing?" she asks, like she's reading his mind.

"Fine." The answer has become automatic.

She looks at him. "F-I-N-E, or F-Y-N-E?"

"Which one means 'I wish people would stop asking me that'?"

She looks away. "F-I-N-E," she says, sadly. "You're _fine_."

"Yeah, so they say." It's a very poor attempt at his usual flirtatious tone, but she gives him a shoulder-bump anyhow (he'd made sure she was sitting on his undamaged side).

He reaches for the box to take a raisin, but she pulls it quickly out of reach. If he'd had both arms, he would've pinned her with one, and made a grab for the box with the other, just to annoy her. "Jeff! They're for the pigeons," she scolds.

"What pigeons?" he grumbles.

To spite him—obviously—a pigeon chooses that moment to land in the grass and peck at the raisins she's been so industriously scattering. Annie gives him a smug look. "That pigeon."

He's pleased to hear her sound a little more like herself, so he lets it go, and slouches down on the bench, stretching out his legs. A second pigeon flutters down to join the first. Annie flings a raisin, and laughs when the birds startle. Gradually, more and more birds turn up, and her aim turns more specific, like she's trying to ensure they all get a fair share But they're dopey creatures, and despite her best efforts, there are still one or two losers that don't get as much.

Annie pouts as she crumples the empty box and stuffs it into her pocket. "Pigeons are so stupid," she says. "That one there with the white stripe on its wings ate nearly twice as much as any of the others."

"Yeah. The others should beat him up and steal his lunch money," says Jeff, absently.

Annie chuckles darkly. "Don't worry. He'll get what's coming to him." 

The greedy bird in question launches into the air with an ungainly _whuff_ of wings, fluttering to the nearest tree, and Jeff realizes that he's thought about nothing but the equitable feeding of pigeons for the last ten minutes. It's progress, of a sort. Being here with her isn't supposed to fix him, though, so maybe he should do something, say something, to help her. He used to be so good with words—surely he can find some combination that works?

"Hey, Annie. D'you want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?" she asks, idly watching the pigeon in the tree.

"I don't know," he says, awkwardly. "Anything you want. Whatever's on your…"

Abruptly and silently, the pigeon swivels around on the branch and flops to the ground.

Jeff stares at it for a second, and then looks at her. "Did that pigeon just...?" He sees the mischievous gleam in her eyes. "Did _you_...?"

"I read it in a book, once," she says, airily. "I'm not sure of the right dose for pigeons, though, so I might've overdone it." He must look shocked, because she adds, "Don't worry, Jeff, it's just ground-up sleeping tablets."

"Oh." He looks to where the pigeon is laying—presumably doped to the gills—in the grass. The stupid bird is gonna have one hell of a hangover.

"The nurse says I'm not allowed to have poison," she adds, terrifyingly.

"Uh, _no_. Jesus, Annie."

There's a soft _whump_ as another bird topples off its perch. And then another. Annie giggles.

She looks happier than she has in months—eyes bright, cheeks showing a touch of color. She's lovely, he realizes, heart beating faster with something that's not anxiety, for once. And what the hell, it's only some pigeons.

Before he leaves, he finds himself agreeing to bring a bag of hazelnuts on his next visit. (They're another forbidden item in the hospital, in case of allergies.) Annie beams at him, and really, how could anyone expect him to resist her when she gives him that look, all adoration and approval—like there's not a single thing wrong or broken about him? "The squirrels will love them!"

He and the local wildlife don't stand a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by the Tom Lehrer song, 'Poisoning Pigeons In The Park', which is so completely right for evil!Annie and evil!Jeff. :)


	3. Bad Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> J/A Appreciation Week 2016: angst

Sometimes she has bad days.

Sure, she was well enough to leave the hospital, and mostly she's okay, in an aimless, lethargic kind of way, probably due to her industrial-strength prescription meds (he hates seeing her like this, _hates_ it; he wants manic!Annie back, with all her restless need to fill every moment of every day, and her hyper-focused energy, even if it does mean the occasional incident of waking up in the middle of the night to find her sat at his dining table with a sewing machine, adjusting every shirt in his wardrobe to fit his new one-armed state). But some days—some weeks—her mood seems to slip slowly downwards, almost imperceptibly at first, until she hits the 'staring out of the window, crying silently' phase that seems to be Annie's rock-bottom (he hates that even more than the lethargy). He watches her closely, those days, because the last time he didn't, the last time he let it slide, she ended up in a secure ward for three months. He cycles through his own merry-go-round of negative emotions, then: worry, frustration, rage (mostly at Pierce, because even in death he's managing to fuck everything up), helplessness, despair, selfish anger because _he lost his damn arm_ , grief, numbness, fear... around and around and around.

And then, slowly, painfully, they pick themselves back up, dawn breaks, and Annie smiles again, and Jeff begins to think that maybe they can get through this, maybe it'll all be okay—and the whole miserable, awful cycle begins again.

Britta says that things are improving, that the cycles aren't as bad or as long, and objectively he thinks she might be right. But subjectively, some days he'd like to go to sleep and never wake up. He's just so _tired_.

While Annie was away, her landlord kindly but firmly evicted her for non-payment of rent. They all helped put her stuff into storage, and when she came out, Abed and Troy invited her to stay at their place, but she got as far as the door before having a complete meltdown. So she's been staying with him, sleeping in his bed (he’s on the pullout couch, _Shirley_ ), until she decides what she wants to do. He doesn't mind; she doesn't ask for much, and they've both got some pretty messed-up sleep cycles—he's on some kickass painkillers—so it's nice to have company when he's marathoning 'Ninja Warrior' in the middle of the night.

The others were around, at first, but then Britta, Shirley, and Abed went back to complete their degrees, so it was just him, Annie, and Troy. That was kind of nice, actually—things have a way of feeling better when Troy is around, almost like an adventure. But even though the three of them had been granted a pass on all their courses, Troy wanted to be where Abed was, cooking up more harebrained schemes. So now he's back at Greendale, too, and Jeff and Annie are on their own.

And Jeff is free. The passing grade effectively completed their degrees _in absentia_ (Jeff has a feeling that a certain manic pixie dream-dean had something to do with that), so now he officially, unceremoniously has a real undergraduate degree, after considerably less time and schoolwork than he'd anticipated. In his more superstitious moments, he wonders if he'd said something about giving his right arm not to be there.If so, it appears that the chaotic, malevolent spirit that seems to inhabit the campus was listening. However it happened, he's done with Greendale. He could go back to being a lawyer—the detached, calculating side of him points out that he could really make the one-armed, tragic thing work for him in the courtroom—or he could try something else. Pierce left them all a bequest, and while a large chunk went towards medical bills, there's still enough for Jeff to have financial breathing room, and some time to think. So that's what he's doing: thinking, and watching Annie.

He's probably doing more of the latter than the former—his thoughts tend to stray down dark alleys and dead ends when left to themselves. And Annie is… easy to care about. Sometimes they go out for coffee, or to the park, or to her appointments or his (but never past Greendale—she doesn't like that route). His physical therapist, Sam, has learned to hand the revised list of workouts to her rather than Jeff (it's not that Jeff doesn't do the exercises, it's that he does them _too much_ ). The days slip formlessly by, blurring into weeks. Nothing much changes.

Except.

She's on a downslope again, he can tell. Yesterday, she spent nearly an hour in the shower, emerging red-eyed and listless. She curled up beside him, hair warm and damp against his shoulder, and sat through three episodes of 'Hunter'—a seriously terrible 80s cop show he'd forgotten the existence of until now—without a sound. He'd assumed she'd fallen asleep, but when he craned his neck to check, she blinked back at him, eyes wide and expressionless. It was a little unnerving.

Today, his arm is acting up—nerves misfiring, telling him he's got an unbearable itch about a foot from his shoulder, where there's just empty space. It gets more painful, the more he tries to ignore it, so he pops a couple of painkillers, but they just dial the feeling back to an annoying buzz that sets his teeth on edge. He's not supposed to mix his meds with scotch, but he's done a lot of things that he's not supposed to, and one glass won't hurt. It leaves him feeling fuzzy-headed, pain-free, and mildly nauseated.

Annie has barely moved from the couch since yesterday. They both slept there last night (which is probably why his arm is sore), and she didn't want to go with him to the store this morning. She accepted the sandwich he made for lunch, but half of it is slowly curling on the coffee table. He's at the helpless, frustrated stage—possibly his least favorite. He doesn't want her to be sad anymore. He just wants to _fix this_ , but he doesn't know how. 

The second scotch goes a long way towards settling his stomach, weirdly enough. 

He stretches out his arm along the couch as she scrolls through the channels, eventually landing on one that's trying to sell them an infinite number of kitchen utensils he doesn't need and would never use. He's strangely fascinated by the amount of time they're able to spend, just singing the praises of the vegetable spiralizer. It reminds him a little of being in court: it wasn't about being _right_ , it was about being _convincing_.

Annie leans into his side, picking at the frayed end of her sleeve, and his arm naturally curls around her. She sighs wearily, and his hand closes loosely around her arm, rubbing it comfortingly.

"Have you ever tried zucchini spaghetti?" she asks.

He shakes his head, glancing down at her. "No. You?"

"I hate zucchini."

He files the knowledge away, for future reference. He lifts his hand to push back the hair that hangs in front of her face, tracing the backs of his fingers gently along her cheekbone and down to her chin. She lifts her eyes to his.

She looks sad—so, so sad. But there's one thing he hasn't tried.

Slowly, carefully, he leans down and presses his lips to hers. 

She doesn't move for the longest time, and he's just beginning to get the first, tiny inkling of a feeling that he might have made a huge mistake, when her arm lifts languidly, and wraps around his shoulder, pulling him around to better align their mouths. Jeff draws in a sharp breath, and leans forward more heavily, slipping slightly before he remembers to brace his one hand against the back of the couch for balance. 

Time seems to pause as, gently and without further intent, they make out. He learns the softness of her lips, the warm wetness of her tongue—the soft sound she makes when he drags his mouth teasingly across hers. Nothing interrupts them, and he has no thoughts whatsoever.

Finally, he lifts his head. Her cheeks are pink, and there's a soft glint in her eyes. He kisses her nose, lightly, and then settles back in his seat, arm around her.

They watch five hours of QVC without moving.


	4. Better Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> J/A Appreciation Week 2016: free space
> 
> Okay, _technically_ I failed to post this during the Week, but I totally meant to!

Things are getting better. His arm is still gone, but the idea of a prosthesis isn't making him want to yell and throw things quite so much. He's adapted his workout routines, and he's regaining strength in the other arm. They're reducing Annie's meds, and there's a brightness to her that he hasn’t seen for a long time. 

And then there's the kissing. Which keeps happening.

They haven’t talked about it, or acknowledged it in any way. Their sleeping arrangements remain the same—he's still on the pullout in the living room—and as far as their friends are concerned, nothing has changed. It's just that, now and then, when they're slouched in front of the TV together, he'll turn to her, or she'll turn to him, and they'll just... start making out. Slow and easy, no pressure, no words—just this thing between them, this persistent draw. It's the most innocent kissing he's ever done in his life—or it is, right up until it isn't so innocent any more. Because, well. There's kissing. And then there's... more than kissing. He's honestly not thinking—she's so warm and tempting, and his hand strays—and then she's trembling in his arms (his _arm_ ), breath hitching, face pressed into his chest, clutching on to him for dear life, and... so. That happens. 

Neither of them says anything afterwards. They just stay there, sprawled on the couch with her mostly on top of him. She falls asleep, which is ridiculously cute. He stays awake because, well, he's still _tense_ , but after a while, he dozes off, too—and sleeps pretty deeply, actually. And in the morning, she smacks his chest when he tries to steal her coffee (there's no more in the pot, what's he supposed to do?), and he grins for five minutes straight.

And then, a few nights later. They haven’t done anything since that night, but it's not far from his mind at any given moment. She's been sleeping better, recently, and so has he, but an hour after she heads for bed, he's still awake, staring into the dark and thinking of things that Shirley would definitely frown upon. And... he can't help it, he needs some relief. 

He's too caught up, so he doesn't hear anything until the springs creak noisily next to him, and he about jumps out of his skin. He clutches the blankets to his chest like a maiden aunt, and glares at her, breathing shakily. "Annie!" he whisper-yells.

She ignores the reproof in his voice, moving closer, sliding down next to him (oh god). She rests a hand on his chest, and she can probably feel his heart racing. "Let me?"

How can he refuse?

She tugs the blanket out of his suddenly-nerveless fingers, and slides her hand down. At the first brush of her hand on his cock, his eyes roll back. "Oh, _god_." He hasn’t felt this good since before the accident. And even then, it wasn't this _intense_. It's like he's touch-starved, desperate in a way he hasn’t been since he was a teenager. And, like a teenager, it only takes a few moments, embarrassingly, before he's gasping and shaking and coming all over her hand. 

He pulls her close, pressing her head into his shoulder so she can't look at him. "Do you want...?"

She shakes her head. "I'm good," she says, muffled.

They lie still for a while, as his heart rate slows, and he tries not to feel so emotionally undone.

When she shifts, he releases her immediately. She sits up, but he can't make out her expression in the darkened room. 

"I just got up to get a drink," she tells him. "Do you want anything?"

He shakes his head, and watches as she slides to the edge of the pullout bed, and then pads into the kitchen. He hesitates for a moment before pulling off his T-shirt and using it to wipe himself. Then he pulls the blanket up further, so she can't see the stub of his arm. 

He hears the tap running, and a few seconds later she returns with a tall glass of water. He holds his breath as she puts it down on the side table, and then slides back into bed with him, pulling the blanket over herself. She cuddles up to his side and puts her hand on his chest. He shivers when her hand touches his bare chest. 

"Annie?"

"Yeah?"

He has no idea what to say. Self-consciously, he tugs the blankets a little higher over his shoulder. "Goodnight."

"Mm." She shuffles down, making herself comfortable. "Goodnight," she replies, sleepily. And in a few minutes, despite everything, he's asleep.

\---

But still, something holds them back from crossing that final line. The kissing increases in both frequency and intensity—she ambushes him when they've just brushed their teeth in the morning and they're both minty fresh; he's wondering what to make for dinner when she comes into the kitchen, and he pins her back against the fridge and goes to town (who needs food, anyway?); they have to restart season 2 of Burn Notice three times because they keep getting distracted. But then the tiny buttons of her sweater are too fiddly to undo with one hand, or her phone buzzes with a text from Abed, just as his fingers are brushing the bare skin on the back of her leg... and they pause, and look at each other, and... reset.

It's partly the negative stuff—he's low-level worried about taking advantage of the situation, of her mental state, of her age (as always)—and he's scared, _terrified_ , of what will happen when the clothes come off, that he'll see pity or disgust in her eyes. He's not sure if he can handle that. But it's also... he thinks it might be a game, too. See who snaps first, who can't take the anticipation any longer. He wants it to be her, but he's pretty sure it's going to be him, if this goes on much longer. His mind is stuck in a permanent loop of what he wants to do with her, to her. What he wants her to do to him. 

All he needs is that one final push.

\---

"What's this?" she says, pulling something out of the bottom of his fruit bowl. It takes him a second to identify it. 

"Oh—that. You know Abed keeps going on about this being the Darkest Timeline?"

She gets the reference, although it's before her time (and his, for that matter). "The goatee of evil," she nods, holding it up to her face with a smirk. "How do I look?"

"Ridiculous," grumbles Jeff. 

She pouts, which makes it look even stupider. "Well, then—" She leans over and presses it to his face, where it catches and sticks to his stubble. 

He's not exactly sure why he doesn't instantly rip it off, but it might have something to do with the expression on her face. It's amused, mainly, but also... arrested. Heated.

"Now _I_ look ridiculous," he growls. He doesn't miss the way this makes her eyelids flutter. 

"No, you look..." She tilts her head, trying to decide on a word. "Bad," she purrs at last, her lips lingering over the word. 

And, somehow, that's the last straw.

With an inarticulate noise, he sweeps her up, and she flings her arms around his neck so she can kiss him. And he doesn't care that it's the middle of the afternoon on some random Wednesday, or that he's wearing a felt goatee, or that it's entirely possible neither of them is entirely in their right mind any more. He doesn't care about his arm, or her age, or their friends. They both want this, and come hell or high water, they're going to have it.

She wraps her legs around his waist, and he strides through the apartment, to the bedroom, to throw her down on the bed she's been commandeering for the last few weeks. She bounces straight back upright, and attacks the buttons of his shirt. 

"Last chance to back out," he advises her. 

She just gives him a scathing look. "As if I'm scared of you!"

He takes this as the provocation it's intended to be. He rips off the stupid goatee, and pushes her back onto the bed, kissing her ruthlessly—just how she likes it. She abandons his half-open shirt, and wraps her arms and legs around him with passionate abandon. Somehow, they manoeuvre further onto the bed, and he sinks down onto her with a groan of satisfaction. Her hands are everywhere, in his hair, running over his back, feverishly unbuttoning his pants—but when she tries to slide the shirt down his shoulders, reality returns in a rush, and he flinches back violently. 

They're both breathing hard, and he can't meet her eyes—but he can't help staring at her lips, either. He wants this. He _really, really_ wants this. But...

"Jeff," she says, softly. "It's okay."

He licks his lips nervously. "No. It's not. I just—I don't—"

Her hands run over his back, soothingly now, and crap, he's totally killed the mood, hasn't he? 

When she pushes him gently away from her, he rolls onto his back, covering his face with his one remaining arm. " _Fuck._ "

But she moves on top of him, sitting astride his lap. "What would make it easier? Keeping clothes on? Should I close the blinds? Or we can just take this really slow."

He drops the arm, and meets her eyes again. She's looking at him with such calm reassurance, such unflinching certainty... and he doesn't know why he's surprised, but he is, all over again. She's never been afraid of his jagged edges.

He swallows, and glances at the blinds. If he'd planned this better—or at all—they could have done this at night. Reading him correctly, she slides off the bed and pads to the window, quickly rolling down the blinds. It's not all that dark, but it's better. Then she hurries back, like she doesn't want to stop touching him for too long. He knows the feeling. He pulls her down and kisses her. It's sweet, rather than passionate. 

"Slowly," he whispers. "Can we just go slowly?"

She nods. "Whatever you need. It's okay, you know—not to be okay." She strokes a finger gently along his cheek. "I think... I think if we pretend that it doesn't matter, maybe it'll come true."

"You think that'll work?"

She shrugs, and gives him a soft smile. "It can't hurt, right?" 

He doesn't want to give her this damaged, uncertain version of himself, but then again, she's pretty damaged in her own way, so maybe this is what's right for both of them? It doesn't feel wrong. Dangerous, exciting... and uncontrollable, maybe, but not wrong.

"Okay," he says, because in the end, he wants to give in to this, to everything she's offering. He wants to stop feeling so weak and broken—and he's never been good at taking the hard but noble route. He slides his hand up her back, sinking it into her warm, heavy hair. "Let's play pretend."


	5. Wicked Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> J/A Appreciation Week 2016: fluff

She's eyeing the jeweler's window in a way he's come to recognize. But her expertise is mostly in smash-and-grab at drug stores, and mall security would probably stop her before she could make a clean getaway, so he steps in close behind her, leaning down to nibble on her ear. "See something you like, babe?" he asks, in the gravelly timbre that never fails to work. After all, what's the point of becoming a lawyer again if he can't spend a shitload of money on his girlfriend?

She shivers, and leans back against him. "Mmm," she purrs. "Yes, but you have to guess which one."

He looks over her shoulder. She's standing in front of a display of necklaces, metal and jewels glittering in the lights. She likes gold, so he focuses on those, scanning over them quickly—and his eyes are automatically drawn to one in particular. "That one," he points.

"Clever boy," she says, turning in his arms. "Take your prize."

He squeezes her against him, and kisses her, but breaks off to look over her shoulder again. "You don't think it's a little…"

"Trashy? Oh, totally," she says. She looks up at him from under her eyelashes. "I don't care. I want to be branded," she whispers.

Fuck mall security. He picks her up and slams her against the glass window, kissing her savagely, ignoring the alarms that go off.

And then he buys her the necklace and takes her home so she can wear nothing but that: his name on a gold chain around her throat.

\---

Three days later, he wakes up to a searing pain in his lower back. He yelps and tries to leap up, but is brought up short by the handcuffs he fell asleep wearing (heh, she wore him out). 

"Don't move," snaps Annie, enough command in her voice that he immediately freezes. She's sitting on the backs of his thighs, apparently dealing with, or responsible for, whatever's hurting him. He has a sinking feeling it's the latter.

"What's going on?" he demands, trying to see over his shoulder. But she just shoves him back down with one hand. There's a buzzing noise, like an angry wasp trapped in an echo chamber, Annie leans over him, and the pain returns, just above his left buttock. "What the hell are you doing?!" 

"Remember that tattoo equipment I bought on Ebay last week?" she answers, casually.

"YOU'RE TATTOOING ME?!" He's so shocked, he even forgets to use the Batman voice that's almost second-nature these days. He doesn't struggle, in case that makes it worse. "Stop that, right now!"

"Oh, don't be a baby," she says, still going. "I practiced."

That's great, but it's _really not his main concern_.

"On that pork joint."

He's momentarily distracted. "The one we had for _dinner_?"

She sighs irritably. "It's just ink. Do you want this tattoo or not?"

"Not! _Not_ , Annie! I thought I was being pretty clear about that!"

"Well, tough. I've already done the A, so you might as well let me do the rest or it'll look stupid."

Which is how he ends up with her name tattooed inexpertly in her rounded copperplate handwriting, just above his ass.


	6. Evilly Ever After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> J/A Appreciation Week 2016: future fic

Annie goes back to rehab when she gets pregnant.

(That makes it sound simple. It's not. She vanishes for a week without leaving a note, and he's _frantic_. He's got no idea where she's gone or why, if she's decided to go on a cross-country solo rampage, Bonnie without her Clyde, or if she's been in an accident, or if she’s tripping out somewhere and has lost all track. If she's hurt. If she's safe. If she went of her own accord. If she doesn't want him. If she's _dead_.

She returns—thin, pale, weary, and clean—and he can't yell at her because he can't form words right now. "I'm sorry," she whispers into his shoulder. "I didn't think you'd…")

They decide to go ahead with the whole having-a-baby thing.

("Fuck, Annie, anything you want, _anything_. D'you want a house? A dog? We should probably get married, right? If I break all of Chang's teeth, we can harvest the diamonds—"

"Jeff, calm down. Slow, deep breaths. One thing at a time, okay? And don't break Chang's teeth—he's like the main reason people come to Greendale now."

"Okay, okay. But you wanna do that, right? And we'll need a house. I mean, we'll have to put the kid somewhere, we can't just stick it in a drawer in my dresser—should I be calling it 'it'? God, it's too early to know, right—whether it's—"

"Jeff. _Breathe_. And sit down before you fall over. Remember: you're Evil Jeff and you're in control."

"I'm Evil Jeff and I'm in control. I'm Evil Jeff and I'm in control. I'm Evil Jeff and…")

Their friends are happy for them.

("Hahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahahaha!")

They do all the normal things: getting married…

(Bride!Annie is actually scarier than crazy!Annie, Jeff has decided. He made some casual remark about lilies, and the look she gave him, it was like he could actually _feel_ her psychically stabbing him to death. But on the day, he looks so good in his tux that he actually forgets his missing arm for several seconds. And then Annie looks so good in her gown—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, white lace curving proudly over her swelling stomach, boobs… _guh_ —that he forgets his entire body, his past existence, his fear that this will all go horribly wrong, his name, and how to breathe.)

…buying a house…

(If he has to hear _one more thing_ about gables, he's going to strangle this realtor and bury her under the “perfect for a swing, or maybe even a treehouse—isn't that right, Proud Papa?” oak tree. He glares at her, and growls under his breath, but she's not intimidated at all; it's possible she's eviller than him. But Annie has a list, and she won't be happy unless it's perfect for baby Chloe/Lyra/Etta/Sophie/Violet/Zoe/Rebecca/Katie—but emphatically _not_ Shirley/Britta/Anastasia/Troyanna/Abette/X-23/Ripley/Ariel/Study Group Jr./Annie And Jeff Part Two: The Revenge, or Megan.

"Can you give us a moment?" says Annie, who isn't at all scared of the possibly-a-supervillain realtor. When she's gone, Annie whirls to him and drops the poker face. "Jeff! It's _perfect_!"

"Oh, thank god.")

…and getting a dog.

("I'm evil, I should at least be allowed a hellhound. That's, like, Villainy 101."

"It's not a hellhound. It's a _schnoodle_."

"An _evil_ schnoodle. Look, it's black and everything!"

"Jeff, it's okay to just admit that you're a _giant sap_ who saw those big, sad eyes and just couldn't stop himself."

"…Okay, _maybe_ , but on the other hand, I bought him this Darth Maul outfit."

" _Oh my god that is so cute, I'm gonna die!_ ")

The baby comes a month early.

(Jeff cites this as evidence that she's definitely evil—after all, she's already trying to give him a heart attack. Annie agrees, because she didn't have time to finish her preparations, and this makes her cranky. In one of the earliest photos of Baby Name TBA, Jeff is sound asleep in a surprisingly comfortable hospital chair, arm wrapped possessively around a tiny, pink bundle. The fact that both of them are wearing felt goatees is solely due to his unconscious state.

They love her.)

Of course, Pierce is back from the 'dead' by now, and Shirley's sober again, so the only traces of the Darkest Timeline are Troy's lost voice, his lost arm, and Annie’s lost mind—and that's getting better. 

When Chloe is a year old, Annie feels stable enough to go back to Greendale. It's been three years, and she's nervous, so on the first day of school he takes the afternoon off, picks Chloe up early from evil daycare (which is much like regular daycare except he's pretty sure that one teacher hates him and is secretly training their child to puke on his suit whenever he's got a court appearance), and turns up unexpectedly in the study room. Britta is there of course, because she's working on a master's in psychology (so she can become an expert manipulator, she claims, although Jeff suspects she secretly just wants to help people), and Pierce (because he never really left). Jeff brings Shirley, who didn't go back after graduation, and sets up a Skype session with Troy and Abed. He puts the laptop on the table between Abed and Troy's old seats, and they press their faces up close to the camera.

When Annie sees them all, she stops short in the doorway, her hand going to her mouth. "Oh," she says quietly, and she's welling up, but he's pretty sure they're good tears. Her gaze flits to everyone around the table, and settles on Chloe, between Jeff and her seat in a highchair stolen from the cafeteria. She gives a hiccupping laugh.

"So how was your first day?" growls Jeff.

Annie crosses to her chair and drops her backpack to the floor before sitting down. She leans over so that Chloe can grab at her fingers and try to stick them in her mouth. "It was great! Except this one professor in my Criminal Law class. He completely ignored me, the whole lesson! I think he hates me because I actually want him to do his job." She grimaces. "If there's one thing I hate, it's lazy educators."

"Want me to scare him a little? " Jeff gives her an evil grin, and Annie grins back.

"No. I can handle it," she says, sounding like she means it.

(She does: possibly the riot was over the top, but Jeff figures the professor probably had it coming. "It was just like old times," says Annie, smiling mistily.)

So he has an evil wife, and an evil baby, and an evil job, and an evil life. On reflection, maybe it's just a _life_ —and a pretty good one, at that.


End file.
